Chapter 2 - The Safehouse Protocol
The black SUV navigated through Boston’s narrow, winding streets with practiced, silent speed. Rain began to slick the asphalt, reflecting the amber lights of streetlamps into long, glowing streaks across the tinted glass.
Penny leaned against the door, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. The tequila fuzz was rapidly evaporating under the cold blast of adrenaline, leaving her feeling dizzy, sore, and deeply aware of the massive man sitting six inches away from her.
“Where are we going?” she asked, clutching her purse to her stomach like a shield.
“Somewhere secure,” Matteo replied smoothly. He reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped a small smudge of glass dust from his cuff. “The man in the gray suit wasn't a random drunk, Miss Hayes.”
Penny froze. “You know my name?”
“I know everyone who works in my establishments,” Matteo said.
“The Velvet Room isn't yours. It belongs to Gordon Pike.”
Leo turned around from the front seat, holding a damp cloth against his bleeding cheek. “Pike sold forty percent of his equity to Mr. Vale six months ago to pay off his gambling debts in Atlantic City. Technically, kid, he’s your boss’s boss.”
Penny groaned, pressing her forehead against the cool glass of the window. “Great. Excellent. Happy birthday to me. I just poked my ultimate boss in the chest and called his security detail a steroid-powered boy band.”
Matteo’s lips twitched—a fleeting, microscopic movement that vanished almost as fast as it appeared. “The observation regarding my men was uncalled for. Leo does cardio three times a week.”
“I do functional fitness,” Leo muttered defensively.
“Shut up, Leo,” Matteo said without looking at him. He turned his full attention back to Penny, his gaze sweeping over her face, her disheveled curls, and the black server’s apron still tied snugly around her waist. “The shooter was Marcus Vance. He works for the Moretti family out of Providence. He wasn't aiming for me.”
Penny frowned, turning her head. “What?”
“He was aiming for you,” Matteo stated flatly.
The cabin of the SUV went dead silent save for the hum of the heavy engine.
“That’s absurd,” Penny laughed nervously, though there was no humor in it. “I’m a waitress. I make eleven dollars an hour plus tips. Why would an assassin from Providence shoot at a woman whose biggest daily struggle is deciding whether to buy generic peanut butter?”
“Because your father was Arthur Hayes,” Matteo said softly.
Penny felt as if the floor had dropped out from under her. The air left her lungs in a sudden, sharp gasp. “My father died ten years ago in a car accident.”
“Your father was an accountant for the Moretti syndicate before he died,” Matteo corrected her. “And three days ago, a safety deposit box registered under his name at a bank in South Boston was flagged for liquidation due to unpaid fees. The bank notified his legal next of kin.”
“They sent a letter,” Penny whispered, memories suddenly clicking together like falling dominoes. “A letter came to my apartment on Tuesday. I thought it was junk mail. I haven't opened my mail in a week.”
“Inside that box is a ledger,” Matteo said, leaning forward slightly, his presence overwhelming the enclosed space. “A hard copy of every illegal transfer made by the Moretti family between 2010 and 2014. Vance was sent to ensure you never opened that letter, never retrieved that box, and never handed it over to federal prosecutors.”
“So... he tried to kill me at my job?”
“He tried to make it look like collateral damage in an attack on me,” Matteo said. “If you died in a shootout involving the Vale organization, nobody would look twice at your father’s old bank box. It would be written off as bad luck.”
The SUV slowed down, turning sharply into a subterranean parking garage beneath a steel and glass high-rise building near Seaport. Heavy security gates lowered behind them with a loud, mechanical clang.
“We’re here,” Leo announced, unlocking the doors.
Matteo stepped out first, unbuttoning his vest, and offered his hand to Penny.
She stared at his long, calloused fingers. “I have my own feet.”
“Your shoes are missing two heels,” Matteo pointed out smoothly.
Penny looked down. Sure enough, one heel had snapped off during the sprint through the kitchen, and the other was hanging by a single thread of cheap glue.
Before she could protest, Matteo reached into the car, swept his arm beneath her knees, and lifted her into his arms again. He didn't carry her over his shoulder this time; he held her firmly against his broad chest, her head resting near the sharp angle of his collarbone.
She smelled expensive cologne, cedarwood, and the faint, bitter trace of the whiskey she had spilled on him.
“You are remarkably stubborn,” Matteo remarked as he carried her toward a private elevator.
May you like
“You are remarkably bossy,” Penny shot back, though her hands instinctively held onto the fabric of his shirt to keep from falling. “Is this how you recruit all your guests?”
“Only the ones who poke me,” Matteo said, pressing the top floor button on the keycard scanner. “And only the ones who survive.”
